


ghosts of christmas past

by djemso



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Deaf Clint Barton, Depression, Espionage, Gen, Gun Violence, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Mature Students, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Prosthetics Research, Stucky Secret Santa 2014, Vomit, tony is briefly mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-03 23:07:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2891492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/djemso/pseuds/djemso
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, you can find your peace with the past by moving forward into your future. At least, that's what Steve has been trying to tell himself since he got here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ghosts of christmas past

**Author's Note:**

> This is a [Stucky Secret Santa](http://stuckysecretsanta.tumblr.com) gift for [kindabamon](http://kindabamon.tumblr.com/)! This really was me out of my element, so I hope I've hit on enough things you enjoy for you to like fic. 
> 
> It isn't beta read as a zillion things cropped up so this is in at the eleventh hour and somewhat shorter than planned. I've gone through it and will do so again tomorrow to check for mistakes, so apologies if it's got them!

“Where is he?”

While her mother had certainly raised her with manners, Peggy Carter had never been one to step on ceremony. When her presence was requested, she saw no need for exchanging unnecessary platitudes even when the request came from a casual friend. She was still in her work clothes, having spent the majority of her day in the offices of SHIELD and having been diverted from returning to her cousin’s home to collapse by a text from Sam Wilson. While she had a deep affection for the man, they were both aware she was not here for a social call.

Sam stood back to allow her access and her heels clicked on the floor, like a warning shot from a barrel alerting the other resident to her presence. Peggy Carter loved Steve Rogers; this was an inescapable fact. She may not have loved him romantically as she once did, but she admired his strength, his passion and unwavering beliefs. He had never run from anything, even with a list of health problems longer than a football field. He never backed down. She believed in people because there was proof that good people still existed in people like Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson. That knowledge was invaluable in the intelligence community; it was so easy to lose faith in others in this job. Frankly, that was why she was so damned pissed off at this latest development.

“Peggy,” Steve said, from his place in the kitchen area. “We weren’t expecting you.” The tone was warm, perhaps testing the waters to see if she would be drawn into pleasantries despite why she’d come. For all of his innumerable excellent qualities, Steve Rogers was for all intents and purposes, a little shit.

“What do you mean you’re not going?” Peggy pushed her shoulders back. She was taller than Steve in her heels but likely unable to intimidate him. Nothing ever seemed to intimidate him. So why was he choosing to walk away from an opportunity of a lifetime to study in London, as he never had in college?

“My accommodation fell through,” Steve’s gaze hardened. It was obviously an excuse. She understood that Steve was grieving, but his self worth was beginning to rot away. Artworks were being abandoned. His fights, though just, were becoming too numerous to count. Sam had been on the verge of intervention when he had contacted her.

Peggy had met Steve when she attended CUNY for a top up course in analytical code breaking. Steve had been studying the classical artists. Steve himself was an exceptional artist; he could not stay still, even when he had seemed to have been on his death bed (an occurrence that seemed to happen once every few years). He was unable to refrain from doodling anywhere and everywhere. They had broken things off on mutual terms when she returned to London, but remained friends. She expected to hear amazing things about an artist she had once known. 

However, within a year and a half, his mother had developed a bad cough which turned into pneumonia and eventually, the disease took her life. Steve hadn’t really been the same since. Though Steve had always stood up for everyone, even when she thought perhaps that person did not deserve his compassion, a deep seated anger seemed to set in and he was now not so much fighting as lashing out.  Sam, as his old college room mate, had moved in with him but still, between Sam and her cousin Sharon, they were not able to move him on the subject of trying to steady his life again.

School fell the wayside, along with his health. Steve had always struggled with his nervous system and his heart and did his best to compensate for being deaf in one ear. It had taken her month to find out he was color blind when he was in college, because he always had something to prove to the world. Now, he had become stagnant and furious. It had been Peggy’s idea to try for a new art programme in London. She believed that a change of scenery would help Steve to move forward. King’s College was doing a specialist semester which would get people back into education after an involuntary break due to health or personal issues. The Specialist Studies and Refinement programme had a set of twelve subjects and Steve had been accepted a few months before. They lined up accommodation with someone else taking the programme in engineering, which had now apparently fallen through.

“You could use my place,” Peggy said, uncrossing her arms. She had offered before, but been rebuffed. This would be different, as of this afternoons meeting. 

“You have a one bedroom place,” Steve said, giving her an indulgent smile. “I’ll get in your way. It’s not a big deal, I can reapply. She imagined if she were a less observant person, she would miss the sad tone of resolve and the fact Steve could smile while simultaneously looking about to cry. He had that tone a lot in the last year, as if anticipating every good thing would fall part. Peggy would be damned if she would let this one.

“I won’t be there,” She said, registering his surprise and confusion with some satisfaction. “As of this morning, I’ve been arranged to Need To Know Only and will be doing Mind Your Own Business for an extended period. As my place in London is not at all like my parents place and perhaps not in the best neighbourhood, you could stay there and stop me from being burgled.” She left off the part where the neighbourhood was one of the reasons she liked it. The building was populated with a set of misfits, with everyone from a Russian ballerina to an old World War II nurse. It had character.

“Spies,” Sam called from his place on the couch, where she could see him shaking his head with her peripheral vision.

“Counsellors,” She mimicked the tone, turning back to face him as an eggroll came flying at her face. She caught it at the last second and grinned indulgently at Sam’s crestfallen look. She really needed to put aside more time to spend with him as he really was quite entertaining company, despite his unholy habit of heating tea in a _microwave_. She turned back to Steve. “I don’t like to see you backing down from something you obviously want. It’s not like you.”

“I’m not backing down from anything,” Steve said, with all the petulance of a teenager.

“Excellent!” Peggy popped the roll into her mouth. “I’ll make the arrangements.”

 

* * *

 

 

“I can’t believe you called Peggy,” Steve said, once she had left. He fixed Sam with a glare as the other man digged into his sweet and sour instead of answering him. If chewing could be labeled as smug, his sure as hell would have been.

 

* * *

 

“I think someone new’s moving in upstairs,” came the sudden, loud voice of Clint Barton.

Bucky winced, broken out of his concentration on a Doctor Who villain marathon to look at where Clint was staring through the peephole like it was endlessly interesting on the otherside. While Clint was doing well a year after his discharge, he was still struggling with losing most of his hearing. It meant his concept of volume control still wasn’t spectacular. It was also part of the reason Bucky had jumped at the chance of moving in with Monty on the top floor when he’d mentioned the need of someone to watch the place while he took a job for SHIELD. It was getting awkward to be next to his bedroom with his sort of girlfriend in there, especially as she and Bucky had previously dated hot and heavy a few years before and he'd even been the one who introduced them.

“What makes you say that?” Natasha said loudly, from where she was nursing her tea and bemusedly staring at her sort of boyfriend. When he looked back at her, she repeated the question while signing. They had all gotten used to doing that, even if Bucky had to compensate with the prosthetic and it really wasn't fucking easy.

 Clint gestured to the door, “Cause that’s the third time I’ve seen him moving stuff up stairs in the last fifteen minutes.”

“Him?” Natasha quirked an eyebrow at him.

Bucky rolled his eyes. While he had confessed to Natasha his preference for men seemed to be dominating his love life (or there lack of), she had finally stopped trying to fix him up with every girl she could think of and started with guys instead. It hadn’t really solved anything, but he knew it came from a good place. She wanted him to be happy and that seemed to translate in her mind to finding a good fuck to get him over his insecurities about people touching or seeing his arm, or there lack of.

His train of thought was thankfully wrecked by Clint squealing like a pig when Natasha’s demonic mutant of a cat decided his toes were fair game.

“Ваша кошка будет смерть всех нас,” Bucky commented, as Koshka tried to roll over and look as innocent as possible.

“I swear when your job is done, we are getting a dog.” Clint grumbled.

It was a familiar threat. Natasha worked for their old employer, an intelligence subsect of black operations organisation SHIELD that was currently investigating some kind of genetic manipulation machine that they’d found plans to when the rescue team came for them in Austria. She’d spent the last three months trying to integrate herself into the inner circle of the upper class by being the prima on a London production but information was conflicting and she was getting more frustrated by the day. She couldn’t talk about it with them; they’d been given the chance to get behind a desk or retire from service after being held captive. They’d both chose to get out. They were snipers, not administrative staff. They’d go crazy behind a desk.

Funny thing was, Bucky seemed to find himself doing more paperwork than ever. Kings was investigating cybernetic prosthetic and Natasha had pulled some string to get him into the program. The prototype was heavy, slow and he crushed things more often than not but even though he only tested it in a lab setting, it might amount to something. It gave him something to be doing while Monty’s place was empty. His old commando unit had been disbanded after Austria, new administration and all of that but Dugan had stayed in London after falling heavy for Phoebe, the mouthy owner of a pub they’d come to frequent. They were getting married at New Years.

“кошка имеет больше яички чем любой из вас,” Natasha preened. She was pretty proud of her murderous little pest.

He went back to watching the farting aliens without comment. He wasn't always very bright, but arguing with Nat was pure stupidity.

 

* * *

 

 

When Steve finally set down the last of his cases, he reflected on why he’d felt the need to bring so much of his stuff. The art supplies, sure but it was only three months in this maze of a city. There was a roll in his stomach that reminded him he was essentially in a city where he knew very little people and barely knew his way around. It wasn't bad per se, but that didn't mean he didn't feel nerves at going this alone. Peggy had at least left instructions on how to get to the nearest grocer, butcher and markets as well as to the local pub. He tried not to think too much about the implications of that. The last person he'd dated had been her.

 The first day at the programme wasn’t much better. Steve wasn’t the quietest person, but he felt awkward and out of place. Most of the other mature students had become parents or were doing this for a career. Worse, there were no other Americans in that part of the programme. His week just got better from there, with getting lost on his way every single damn time he tried to go to class and his piece of shit phone not working the way he wanted it to.

 When some demanding asshole decided to walk past him and shove him straight into another man, he couldn’t help responding with a loud, “Asshole!” The man didn’t turn around, yelling back what Steve was sure was cursing in a language Steve didn’t understand. Embarrassed, Steve flushed. “Not you. Him. Sorry. Did I hurt you?”

The man grinned amiably, “Don’t worry about it. It’s pretty overwhelming for me too and I’m assisting.” He sounded American, but Steve couldn’t quite place the accent. The man held out his hand, “Gabe Jones, modern language studies.”

“Steve Rogers,” He said, “Fine arts.”

“And I think we can name that guy Rude Asshole,” Gabe said, nodding towards where the man had disappeared.

Steve snorted. “So where in New York are you from?” When Steve blinked, Gabe only smiled. “I’m a ‘communications specialist’. Or I was. One of the guys in my unit was from New York. I’m plenty used to the accent.”

“Brooklyn,” Steve said, trying to push away a pang of homesickness at the mention. He had realised how much he would miss his coffee, hanging out with Sam and even just chatting to his elderly neighbours till none of those things were within an arms reach. 

"I think our Sarge is from there," Gabe mused. "Small world."

 

* * *

 

The New Crown was not a particularly popular spot, but the drinks were strong and the food was cheap and cheerful so it attracted a mellow crowd of regulars and students willing to venture beyond the places closer to their campuses. Tim Dugan was a bear of a man, with a rakish smile and a bowler hat. He hugged like a fucking sasquatch.

“You been hiding yourself away?” Dugan said, as Bucky took his seat at the bar. Nat said he’d had a message from Dugan telling him to meet him there, so he’d dragged himself out even though he felt like shit after waking up sure he was still stuck in the cold and bleeding out instead of in his own bed in London.

“You're worried about me?” Bucky said, adopting a teasing tone. “I’m not the one getting married in less than three months.”

Dugan flashed him a smile that was all teeth, “You could be if you let Barton’s keeper set you up with someone who’ll put up with your shit.”

Dugan was like an older brother. A slightly idiotic older brother that continually referred to him as boy, Jimmy and less polite names to get his rankles up and make him fight. When Bucky had first joined the commandos at 21, he had an exceptional career for someone so young but he didn’t always deal well with the realities involved. Dugan, in a lot of ways, had helped raise him. Made sure he didn’t drink down his weight in alcohol, helped him if he couldn’t sleep and checked in continually. He was probably the reason Bucky was still alive. Given that Bucky'ss father had died when he was a toddler and that he and his stepfather had never been close even after eight years of living together, he wouldn't call Dugan a father figure. He was just a bear of an older brother, and he had breath like one too.

“Is that what I do then?” called Phoebe, giving him a quick wave from down the bar. “Put up with your shit?”

“And you do it with a smile on your face! S'one of the many reasons I adore you.” Dugan said, ever the charmer. The look that his fiancee gave him said she knew he was peddling some snake oil, but was willing to bask in it nonetheless. She’d call him on it if it bothered her. He’d seen her make more than one drunk leave with a busted nose and wounded pride when they tried to start something in her establishment. It had been one of the reasons why they'd been so keen on the place.

Dugan looked back to him, “Usual?”

“Yeah,” He said. “Was that why you asked me down here? You missed my chiseled good looks?”

Dugan frowned, and something in Bucky went on high alert. “I didn’t call you.”

Bucky stared at him. “Yeah, you did. You left a message with Nat.”

Dugan shook his head, face contorting into a puzzled expression, “Not me.”

For a moment, Bucky’s heart rate spiked.

“That’s because I did.” At the familiar voice, Bucky spun on his stool to see another ex-member of the Howling commandos. Gabe had been their communications specialist, one of the younger members of the unit and something of a ladies man. He had, on one drunken evening in Italy, even taught Bucky how to waltz when he was hammered and half the swear words he knew were from this guy. Except these days, he was supposed to be working in SHIELD’s DC offices.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Dugan was already back out from behind the bar, squeezing the life out of their old friend.

“Working a job,” Gabe grinned. “I’m helping out at the new college program.” That was -- not right. Which meant that he was really working something else, same as Natasha was at her job. SHIELD was really starting to get a lot of players on the chessboard here. It made Bucky’s nerves light up and he started to wonder if maybe he should be scoping out the crowd.

“You didn’t tell us you were coming,” Bucky frowned, irritated that his voice betrayed a hint of his nerves.

Gabe grinned, “And miss your faces when I make a perfect entrance? Nah.”

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t the worst idea Steve had ever had, but it was coming close to one of the seriously bad ones. It was October and snow was on the horizon. He could feel it in his chest. Not to mention that he didn’t really know the area that well, but Gabe had recommended the pub and said the proprietor would love trading some Brooklyn stories over the bar. The pangs of nostalgia had driven him out, the place feeling absurdly large when he sat there alone. Gabe had even promised he would be around as well, in case he ran into trouble. Steve had given him a dubious look and swore he was able to take care of himself when he wasn’t being pushed around by jerks. Even then, he could handle it if they didn’t run off. Most of the time. He’d just been on a bad streak lately.

“Steve!” He heard Gabe’s voice and used it to navigate the rickety tables and chairs to the bar. Gabe was chatting with a mustached man in a bowler hat, who was leaning forward behind the bar. “This is Tim Dugan, ex New Yorker and currently slinging pints in this place.”

“Everyone calls me Dum Dum,” The man said, shaking Steve’s had. He said it with such pride that Steve was automatically a little confused.

“Dum Dum?” He asked, unsure.

“Spend more than ten minutes with him,” Gabe grinned, “And you’ll see why we call him that.”

Dugan grinned back, wolfish and enthusiastic. “So where you from?”

“Brooklyn,” Steve said, pulling himself onto the barstool and instantly hating that his feet didn’t reach the ground when he did.

Dugan nodded appreciatively, "That’s where Barnes had his roots -- hey, Jimmy, get over here! ”

"How many fucking times? Stop calling me Jimmy!” the voice was exasperated, coming back round from the other side of the bar where the food was being served. It’s owner appeared a moment later with cheese fries. He was brunette, tall with long hair pulled into what looked like a messy bun and was wearing a 'World Of Tomorrow' stamped t-shirt with his leather jacket. “My name’s--”

All the air went out of Steve’s lungs, “Bucky?”

 

* * *

 

 

It began with Becky Barnes’ cat.

At the grand age of six, her older brother Bucky would walk her down the local shop and watch her buy her sweets before walking her back. You could still see their door from the shop, but he still felt very grown up about it. Becky wasn’t old enough to walk to the shops by herself so Bucky took care of her. He took that job all very seriously, right up until the day he got distracted by the comics and heard a commotion outside. Two of the boys from his school, the Thompsons, were standing opposite his sister looking mad as all hell. Becky had a what looked like a ginger fur ball in her arms, cradling it against her chest. The last figure in this strange production was an oddly familiar blonde boy, who looked shockingly pale and was holding his fists up. For a moment, he thought the boy was going to hit one of the Thompsons despite being outnumbered and seriously outsized. Becky was holding onto that squirmy furball like her life depends on it when Ricky Thompson went to throw the rock at the cat that _his sister was still holding_.

It was a moment of blind rage and he smacked his knuckles into Ricky Thompson’s stupid face. It probably hurts him as much as hurts Thompson because he’s never punched anyone before. For a moment, he thinks the other guy - Rogers? - is going to throw a punch at Ricky’s brother. Apparently, so does Paulie because he rears his fist up and goes for him right in time for the kid to project puke right in his face and sends both Thompsons running off screeching.

Bucky laughed for five minutes straight, before he congratulated the boy on his aim and took him back to their place for a glass of water. He was a little shaky, and Bucky would learn that Steve was nearly always a little shaky, but that was okay. He’d gotten a best friend out of the deal and Becky had gotten her cat.

 

* * *

“So what happened?” Gabe asked.

After Steve had stopped looking as if his asthma was acting up, the four of them had taken up the seats at the end of the bar and Steve had recounted the tale with Bucky piping in where Steve underplayed his balls. Bucky couldn’t stop staring. Steve Rogers had been his best friend when he’d been little, a righteous ball of fury who challenged every bully in the neighbourhood and never stopped getting up when they knocked him down. After the incident with Becky’s cat, Bucky had begun to help him and gotten his first taste of trying to protect people. They’d both talked about going into the service when they were older, like their respective dead fathers, but Bucky had always had the nagging feeling Steve would never make it. Steve had always seemed ill, even staying in the hospital for weeks at times while his mother always seemed to be working. He’d always tried to help out by doing shopping or cleaning the place up a bit for them (something his mother named a miracle). But the fact was, he hadn’t thought of Steve Rogers more than in passing in over a decade.

“Ma married my step-dad,” Bucky shrugged. The commando’s knew he’d spent his childhood hopping from one place to the next every few months without every really settling down. He’d done that up until he’d joined the army, then got referred to SHIELD. It seemed like he was always moving on after a few months. He’d been in the programme in London for a month and a half, with five more months or so left on the clock. He’d figured when that was done, he’d move on again and try and figure it out.

“We tried to stay in touch,” Steve said, worrying his lip as he stared over him. “But we were ten, eleven years old and there wasn’t always a way.”

“I didn’t forget you though,” Bucky insisted, suddenly keen to specify that.

Steve smiled back, “You are pretty unforgettable.”

Bucky’s stomach flipped unexpectedly. He  would have put it down to his spectacular diet of cold pizza and a variety of instant noodles, if it weren't for the fact that he had vague memories of wanting to make Steve Rogers smile more than he wanted anything else in the world. More than _chocolate_. It seemed like that hadn't left him, judging by the way his pulse had kicked up a notch too.

“I’m still having nightmares about the sight of it,” Steve added, breaking the moment entirely.

“You are such a jerk,” Bucky grumbled into his beer.

Dugan and Gabe burst into laughter.

Steve was still smiling.

 

* * *

 

 

The night ended with Bucky steering an impressively bright eyed Steve with his arm around his back as they walked back to the apartments. Bucky had stumbled drunkenly back this way enough times to know the way blindfolded and drunk, but he didn't know where Steve lived and didn't want him to wander the streets alone. If he remembered nothing else about him, Bucky damn well remembered that Steve Rogers was trouble and couldn't be left alone for extended periods without trouble finding him.

The night had taken to nostalgia, devolving into tales of childhood exploits. You can’t retell embarrassing stories of first loves or the first time a Russian ballerina gets you stuck in a choke hold for fun without a fuckload of alcohol, so they'd gotten hammered. After a retelling of them commandeering a military vehicle and a lot of fireworks for a plan that had inevitably been Derniers idea, Bucky had to push aside a pang of nostalgia and resolved to email him. There was a reason they called him the mad bomber. He was looking forward to seeing him at the wedding, but it was still so long away. It’d been months seen they'd all been together and for the longest time, they’d been his only friends and family.

“Your friends are crazy,” Steve said, sounding overjoyed by this fact.

“My taste has always been fucked,” Bucky agreed, looking back at his face.

Steve hadn’t grown a lot, but he’d stopped wearing his sweeping fringe and started wearing a more modern cut. Bright blue eyes, though. Those hadn’t changed. He was surprised how happy that made him. He didn’t have a lot of connections to his past, he reasoned. It made sense that he wanted to keep hold of what he had. Steve had grown a few inches, but he still looked underweight. Long fingers. Somewhere in the depths of his mind, Sarah Rogers was telling them that Steve had the fingers of an artist. It was probably inappropriate to think about her and wonder what it would be like to draw those same fingers into his mouth one by one.

Bucky tried to push the thought of his head. “Do you remember when you decided to take on that guy in alley after he went mouthing off at that gay couple?”

Steve gave him a look that was surprisingly sober, “Which time?”

Bucky snorted at that, “Yeah. Good point.” There had been a lot of comments and a lot of assholes where they'd grown up, despite all of the good people.

They came to a stop outside the building. Steve looked at the door with some confusion, as if he wasn’t completely sure the door was actually there and reached out to touch it. Bucky suppressed a laugh. He’d always figured Steve’s tolerance for alcohol would be shit, but he’d never gotten to see it. He’d never gotten close with anyone after they'd left Brooklyn, not really, not until he was in the service and the guys. He'd fucked a few people but that was different.

“How’d you know where I’m staying?” Steve slurred slightly on his 's', but wasn’t sounding as bad as he had back at the bar. If he was hallucinating, then that was a whole new thing. Maybe he’d gotten sick. Steve was always getting sick. What if Steve was dying on the doorstep and Bucky was sitting there laughing because fuck, he looked cute scrunching his nose up like that as if he was trying to figure out that door.

“I don’t,” Bucky said, giving him a push through the door and towards to the elevator. 

Instead of moving, Steve pushed him back with a surprising amount of force.

Bucky pushed him back lightly, but more for the contact than anything else. “Steve, I’m trying to get up to my place. I figured you could sleep it off and we could search for your place when you’re not trashed.”

“I’m not trashed,” Steve insisted, before stomping up to the stairs and beginning an ascent.

Bucky’s heart went into his mouth. He was ten years old again and his stubborn, asthmatic best friend was insisting on walking to the top off their apartment building and Bucky was hanging behind him because oh shit, what if he fell or ran out of breath?

“I live here.” Steve insisted, as they climbed the stairs. Bucky could hear the wheeze in his chest and was wondering, helplessly, if Steve had an inhaler on him. Way back when, Bucky had always been the one carrying it for him.

“No,” Bucky called, and it came out a little harsher than he meant it. “I live here, Steve. Steve!”

If he got him killed by falling down drunk on the stairs, he was pretty sure Sarah Rogers was going to appear and kick him six ways till Sunday. He wasn’t sure about each individual way, but he was sure it would hurt. Steve stopped outside a door on the floor below his and Bucky wondered, not for the first time, if he was about to aid and abet a break in. It didn’t bother him so much, but he was a half decent lock pick and Steve still had a drunk sway. If he was bound and determined to break in, Bucky would be better on the locks. Particularly when he was trying to push a key into the lock. That wouldn't work.

“Steve--” Bucky started, then stopped as the key turned in the lock and the door opened.

Steve gave him a look that was equally smug and ‘I told you so’ and ‘You’re the crazy one’ and there was just something about it, something about the nostalgia of the night and a tangible connection he hadn’t felt in years that pushed him to press his mouth against Steve’s. It was chapped and slack, with the sour taste of beer but it was also wet and a little warm. His stomach flipped as he pulled away and for a moment, he considered moving to kiss him again but his stomach flipped again and he realised it wasn't because he was turned on. He just about moved away in time, puking up in the hallway but some spattered on Steve's shoes. 

"Fuck," Bucky growled, before breaking into a run downstairs as Steve called after him. 

 

* * *

 

Bucky woke up with a disgusting taste of acid in his mouth. When he looked down the bed, Natasha’s demon cat using his feet as a pin cushion. It took him a few moments to regain some kind of awareness, before he remembered the night before. Gabe was in town. Steve was here. He’d walked him home. He’d kissed him then thrown up on his doorstep and run off like he was fucking sixteen.

“You can kill me now,” He groaned, while the devil cat looked back at him with utter indifference and went back to his toes. “Ugh, fuck. Not under the nails."

 

* * *

 

 The door knocked while he was brushing his teeth. It was probably Natasha back to claim her hellbeast. He grumbled and trodded into the bedroom, pulling out a pair of loose pants because the last time he’d opened the door in just his tags, Barton had screamed at him about trying to seduce his sort of girlfriend (never just ‘girlfriend’ because they were fucking weird) and Nat had shrugged and said she’d seen it all before and done a few unmentionable things to it so Clint had naturally just looked ready to keel over and make wounded dog noises. Still, he didn’t want the neighbours complaining because Barton was a ridiculous drama queen.

It wasn’t Clint. That was definitely Steve-shaped, if it wasn’t Steve himself, because why would Steve be showing up at his door? How would Steve be showing up at his door? The Probably-Not-Steve was up and dressed, having obviously gone out for coffee and what smelled like fresh cakes. His stomach gurgled.

“You’re not going to puke on me again, are you?” Steve asked, in a way that was far too chirpy for someone who’d be stinking drunk the night before.

“Depends,” Bucky said, looking him over. It definitely looked like Steve and he looked very solid if this was some kind of hangover induced vision. “Is one of those coffees for me?”

Steve looked him over and smiled, bright and cheeky. “Maybe.”

“Too late now if it's not,” Bucky said, pulling the cup from it’s paper holder and taking a drink of the surprisingly still scalding liquid as he waved for Steve to come in. 

His shit was everywhere, since Monty had been gone a while and hadn’t done his Felix impression to try and keep him in line. He had too much of a pounding headache to give much of a shit. He flopped on the couch and gestured to Steve to sit, only to find that he could feel the fabric rough against his skin. Bucky frowned with confusion before the answer dawned: he never kept his shirt off around anyone he didn’t serve with or Natasha. He’d even done his best to keep it from his mother and stepfather and managed never to leave it off around his sisters. He still didn't like how people stared at the scars where his arm ended just below his shoulder. He'd slept with the prosthetic on (and he'd get hell for that)  but he still felt really fucking naked and uneasy, as if his body still wasn’t quite his own. As much as he craved touch and loved to show off, he really couldn't stand people looking at him naked.

Steve wasn't just people. He still a perceptive bastard, because he seemed to notice the discomforts source almost immediately. 

“If you want to put a shirt on, I can wait,” He said, eyes sweeping across his body before giving one of his too-bright smiles. Bucky hadn't let himself go since leaving the service. He was still too paranoid for that. Besides, even if he was the only one currently able to appreciate it, he liked to look good.

“For the record, you do look -- really good,” Steve coughed. “Last night, I was just--”

“Being a little shit?” Bucky said, raising his eyebrows. He hadn't taken any of Steve's teasing seriously. He liked that he wasn't holding back. “No change there then. Those baby blues never fooled me, even if they fooled everyone else.” T

he corner of Steve’s mouth turned up, “You look good, Buck.” He repeated, quietly.

“So do you,” Bucky said, moving himself awkwardly on the couch to get comfortable. He felt too exposed, but would feel like shit if he left Steve to put on a shirt.

“Yeah, I’m a real Olivier,” Steve deadpanned, rolling his eyes and picking at his donut.

“Olivier? What the fuck is wrong comparing yourself to someone who isn't dead?" Bucky made a face."What are you, a hipster?”

“Shut up,” Steve said, throwing the cakebox at his knee where it revealed decadent levels of cream and jam. “Just because I prefer the old studier phones and like less mainstream bands that never get--”

“Oh my god,” Bucky laughed, then winced when the revenge of the headache took hold.

“Drink your coffee,” Steve grunted. “You need to hydrate. It’s a better use of your big mouth than flapping it.”

“I know an even better one,” Bucky said, mostly on flirtatious instinct than any actual game. The difference was palpable between game and instinct. He instantly felt a vague sense of embarrassment, feeling the heat and slightly sweat on his skin despite the cold air outside. He wasn’t entirely sure there was much embarassment left for him after the last couple of years but it was the gift that kept on giving. “Uh---”

“That blush goes down pretty far, then,” Steve bit down on his lip, which was _not helping_.

“Shut up,” Bucky grimaced, pulling one of the cushions in front of his face as Steve started to laugh. “Shut up!” 

Steve just laughed harder.

 

* * *

 

 

“Can I ask you something?” Two days after the bar and they’d met up for what felt like a lunch date, even if neither of them had said as much. For a start, Steve was pretty sure the grease in this joint alone was going to make his heart trouble act up but it would be worth it for one of their disgustingly attractive bacon cheeseburgers.

“Yeah?” Bucky had put his hair up again, the way it had been at the bar as opposed to the stringy mess it had been when he’d come up with breakfast.  He was a better colour than he had been when Steve had left him too. Steve could still see the faint outline of his tags below his white shirt, tight enough to suggest the muscle definition that he knew was under there. He refused to think of this as anything other than old friends catching up until told otherwise. He was definitely not spending an embarrassing amount of time thinking about that kiss, probably the first he’d had since his mother passed and how it had felt like something important deep down in his gut.

“I know you were always careful to move your lips in view in case I couldn’t hear you,” Steve said, put he reached over and touched Bucky's flesh fingers lightly. He'd seemed a little skittish about contact before, but was making no signs of distress now. He just didn't know how far he should push. “But you sign almost constantly when you talk now, even if it’s only partial. I was just wondering why.”

“Oh,” Bucky said, pausing mid-chew with a mouth full of scrambled eggs. He took a swig of coffee and cleared his throat. “The op that did that-” He gestured to his prosthetic. “The noise damaged one of the other guys ears. We all agreed to learn with him, just to kick his ass enough to actually do it. I’m not fluent, but I’m trying.”

Steve smiled, a warm affection pooling in his stomach, “Still looking out for the little guys, huh?”

“Nah,” Bucky shrugged, swallowing hard. “Still making friends with fuckin’ punks who need their asses wrangling.”

“If you wanted my ass, you only had to ask,” Steve said, pushing his luck a little.

Bucky promptly spit into his coffee, coughing violently enough that they got a few stares from the wait staff. “Such-” He coughed. “Such a jerk.”

“Who kissed who?” Steve reminded him, pushing at his foot under the table. This was surprisingly easy. Despite over a decade having passed, they could almost fool themselves into thinking they'd been there every step of the way. Except Steve hadn't known Bucky had been injured and he was sure Bucky didn't know about his mother, but it was comfortable without the knowledge.

“I wasn’t sure if you remembered that,” Bucky shrugged, trying to control his coughs with a drink from Steve’s coffee now his own was uniformly splattered over his side of the table in a truly disgusting display.

“I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to,” Steve admitted, feeling the ebb and flow of shyness coming back into his voice.

“I wanted you to remember that,” Bucky said, wiping the table with napkin over the table to clean it. “I just didn’t want you to remember the puking up.”

“It’s okay,” Steve smiled, a little bittersweet. “If anyone’s used to getting a little vomit on them, it’s me.”

 

* * *

 

“Are you two ever going to go on a real date?” Phoebe asked, as she left off a couple of hot dogs to their table at the crown.“We aint exactly romantic around here.”

They’d spent the last couple of weeks going to the pub most nights, except if Bucky had early appointments to the programme or Steve had an early class. Often then, they would curl up on the couch and watch old movies that Steve seemed to have a never ending list of trivia about and trashy science fiction where Bucky mouthed half the words along with the actors and got popcorn thrown at him.

“We’re plenty romantic,” Dugan called from the bar. “We’re getting married sooon!”

Phoebe looked back at him bemused, “That reminds me." She handed Dugan a mop unceremoniously. "Bogs need doing.”

 

* * *

 

 

_"Steve? It's Peg. Things seem to be a bust out here, despite some initial success. I'll swing by the flat but I'm not kicking you out. I'll be off again shortly. Make some time when I get back and you can tell me all about this boy of yours."_

 

* * *

 

 There was a squeal to Bucky's right. He winced.

“Did you hear?” Darcy was one of the more excitable techs working on the prosthetics. She was going through her email on her phone while she had a minute to spare. “ Stark’s coming here to look at this. Some big ceremony and he's going to the science department. I heard he’s friends with someone in biological sciences. Would you know know anything about that, Betty?”

Doctor Ross summarily ignored her.

“As in the billionaire,” Bucky asked, moving the hands joints as shown on the screen. The left side was still a little stiff and he watched it try and compensate.

“As in potential big ass donor,” Darcy said, putting her fingers on his shoulder to check the stresses. “Ooh, are you working out?”

Bucky shot her a look.

“I’m just saying,” She smiled, and let loose a zap on his arm to see if it would speed the fucking thing up. Bucky could feel it, but it didn't seem to be helping the arm much.  “You look a lot less sad hobo man than you did last month.”

“I have never looked like a sad hobo man,” He grumbled.

“You had like, a neckbeard,” Darcy made a face. “The only thing worse would have been if you’d had a fedora or something. It wouldn’t have anything to do with blonde dude with eyelashes that keeps meeting you outside, would it?”

“Stop winding up the Sergeant,” Dr. Ross gave her a look, and Darcy held up her hands in defeat. “Stark is coming because he and Dr. Banner are old friends and he’s made some breakthroughs with some important research he thinks Stark should see.”

“I bet she even calls him Dr. Banner in bed,” Darcy said in a stage whisper, ducking as some of Dr. Ross’s papers came at her. Ross sent her on a coffee run and threatened to send her back up to physics.

 

* * *

 

All anyone seemed to be talking about was that Tony Stark would be coming.

On the day of the now infamous visit, Steve met Bucky coming out of dexterity tests. Bucky was always a little more subdued afterwards. They weren’t quite at a stage in their relationship where they felt comfortable doing the kiss, but that didn’t stop the hugging. They were both affectionate people and despite the height difference, it wasn't suffocating. It just felt warm and comfortable, which was more than Steve could say for the winter weather. When he pulled back, Steve tried not to laugh when he realised that Bucky had paint smudges on his cheek from it, though. Class had run late and Rude Asshole had practically shoved him into the door frame trying to leave, so he hadn't really had time to gussy himself up a bit.

“How’d it go?” He smiled, trying to contain a laugh.

 “Good,” Bucky said, moving to sort out his jacket and bundle up against the icy winds. “Slow, but good.”

They walked a little ways down, where people were getting very excitable about the flash car that was sitting outside the building. It was obviously Stark’s; garish, but basically practical if you ignored the ridiculousness. It made the painter in him want to fix the horrible clashes of colour to something more sleek.

Suddenly, Bucky stopped and swore. “I left my phone with Ross and I’m expecting Monty to call. I’ll be back, hang on.”

As Bucky disappeared back into the building, Steve wandered down to look at the monstrosity. He could think of a few aesthetic improvements, but Steve had never had much of a head for maths so everything in his head was superficial. It was only because his mind was drifting to thoughts of warm coffee and cold kisses that it took him more than a few minutes to notice that Rude Asshole was striding up towards the main door area. Steve had been meaning to get hold of him ever since he’d shoved him out of the way and Bucky wasn’t here yet, so he was fully intending to give the man a piece of his mind about behaving like a decent human being. 

Half a second later, the doors pushed open and cameras were going off as Tony Stark exited the building yammering on to another man who looked like he wanted to be anywhere but there in the public eye. Both Rude Asshole and Steve had to take a few steps back to allow for the crowd. It was a good thing too, or Steve probably would never have seen the glint of a gun that he’d gotten used to seeing when spending time with the commando’s nor seeing Rude Asshole reach for it. Without thinking, Steve launched himself on him and slammed right into his back so they fell down in a heap. He was barely aware of the sudden shrieks of people around him, as he tried to wrestle a much larger man down with his own spindly legs.

Behind him, he heard Bucky yell and the thought meant he felt himself being slammed hard on the pavement before everything went black.

 

* * *

 

“You are one lucky son of a bitch.”

In a strange haze, Steve thought he could hear Sam. That couldn't be right. Sam was in Brooklyn. He cracked an eyelid and suddenly, became very aware that light was not currently his friend because he winced hard. But that definitely looked like a Sam shaped silhouette sitting beside his bed. Bed?

After blinking a few times, the events of -- the day? -- came back to him sharply and he looked down at himself, but he didn’t seem as he was particularly hurt except how hard his head hurt. He reached up and made a hissing noise, feeling around his face.

“Good thing your skull is as thick is it is,” said Peggy, who was standing off to one side and managing to look both concerned and disapproving at the same time. “Only a concussion and broken nose when Novokov had a gun. Steve, what were you thinking?”

“He wasn’t thinking,” Sam responded, arching his eyebrow. Steve could tell he was thinking of all of those fights he'd been having, but Steve realised that he hadn't been doing that lately. He'd been too busy being wrapped in Bucky's ridiculously large hoodie collection and being forcibly educated in Star Trek. “He never thinks in situations like this.”

“Stark?” Steve croaked, surprised at how his throat ached.

“As obnoxious as ever,” Peggy said, before moving to hand him some water with ice in it. “There were three agents. Falsworth and I handled two but Novokov slipped through our fingers by hiding in plain sight. If you hadn't seen him, there is a chance someone could be dead.”

“Are you actually telling us about your James Bond antics?” Sam asked, his tone light. He had always been good at judging the best tone for the room. It was one of the reasons he was so damn good at his job. “You never tell us anything.”

“That was before Steve decided to launch himself into our investigation.” Peggy shot him a look that said exactly what she thought of that. “Literally.”

Sam snorted, trying to catch Steve's eye and make him smile. Steve was having none of it.

“peaking of James’,” Peggy continued, satisfied someone thought she was funny. “Yours is outside talking to Falsworth and what I assume are his friends.”

 

* * *

 

 “Imagine my surprise,” Bucky said, as he sat down in one of the rickety hospital chairs with a cup of what smelled like incredibly bitter coffee. “When you are the one person crazy enough to _jump_ a gunman twice your size.”

He was lying. He didn’t look surprised at all.

“Hey, Michaelangelo. You can’t make any masterpieces if you get yourself killed before you actually paint any,” Bucky said. His mouth was firming into a straight line, and it he looked tired. It was night now and it was obvious the day had been draining for everyone. Steve wasn't even sure what time of the night it was. He knew Bucky wasn't great at sleeping through the night anyway, and he guessed if he was the one sitting there, he wouldn't be able to sleep after this either.

“I just wanted to do the right thing,” Steve said miserably, looking down at his hands instead of Bucky.

There was a beat of silence before Bucky spoke up again.

“You know what I keep thinking of? When we’d been at the park all afternoon that time and your Ma, she’d charged us with getting her cod. Except we forgot the time. We had to dash, fast as your lungs would let you down to the shops to get in before she did at seven.” He stopped and wet his lips. Steve noticed for the first time that Bucky was flushed and it hit him like lead that he’d obviously been upset while he was waiting. “So we we made it to the shop and we’re on our way back, ahead of time and congratulating ourselves on our epic plan which mostly consisted of running when we come across Gracie from your building and her boyfriend and he’s clearly pushing her to do something. Dunno if we knew then what he was pushing for but I can guess now. Do you remember?”

He did. He could remember the alley only a few blocks down from his place, dark enough for a meeting but also dark enough that people were willing to overlook anything going on down it. He nodded slowly.

“Thing is, her boyfriend was nearly twice our age but the second you heard the word the word no, you lifted off the trash can lid and threw it right at his head. It beaned him so hard, he went down. For about five seconds, before he decided to give chase. I remember having to grab your hand and pull you back to your place before he decided to try and get even cause he was sixteen and I was nine, what the fuck was I going to do? ”

“I didn’t want her to get hurt,” Steve pointed out. “I liked Gracie. She gave us red vines when she had extra at the movies.”

“But you’d have done it whether you liked her or not,” Bucky pointed out. “Now, I told Becks and Becks told my mother and she told yours and you were so damned angry. You stood there, stubborn as all and told your mother no matter what, you had to intervene. She told me later it was just your nature, she didn’t hold it against you but she didn’t want you getting hurt either. Me, I thought my best friend was crazy. Setting a trend for my friendships for the rest of my life.”

Steve had to laugh at that and was relieved when Bucky did a little too, before getting back to his point.

“Anyway,” He said. “That’s not what I thought today.”

“It’s not?” Steve asked, too cautious of what he might say if he opened his mouth again.

“Today I thought, my boyfriend is fucking crazy.” Bucky gave him an indulgent smile. “You always push yourself to do what you feel you oughta and I love that about you. But I am shit scared of this need you have to prove to everyone you can take on anything by yourself.”

“What does that mean?” Steve caught his eyes, wondering if this was a break up visit and that's why Bucky had looked so flushed.

“It means,” Bucky said, then stopped.“I got your back, but you gotta let me. You gotta meet me halfway.”

 

* * *

 

Bucky looked over to the living room area, “So who are they?”

He was standing in Agent Carters apartment while she wrangled Steve home. They’d only kept him overnight, thankfully but she had years of practice in getting him to do what she needed him to. When she'd volunteered to let him go back and shower, he'd taken her up on the offer.

On the couch, Monty was looking through his tablet while Sam was looking around the kitchen. “Yes,” Monty said, answering an unasked question. “They’re the same people as Austria. They call themselves Hydra, but these guys were trained by some old friends.”

“Why’d they want Stark dead?” Bucky asked, leaning against the wall to sooth his aching muscles. His arm fucking throbbed when he didn’t get enough sleep and no one had slept well last night.

“He’s working on some very classified biological and mechanical experiments,” Monty said, trying not to spill anything too sensitive and managing to look fucking shifty because of it. “Word was he’s trying to recruit Banner and Ross.”

“Do we need to be worried?” Bucky asked, as Sam began to pull out the cabinets for some reason. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for the coffee machine!” Sam said, shaking his head. “If I’ve got to swallow sleeper agents and shady government stuff, I need a lot more coffee.”

“Ah,” Monty coughed. “I’m afraid Peggy dispatched one of those agents with it and it's in no shape to do anything.”

Sam blinked, “Are you saying there's assassins but there’s no coffee?”

“There’s probably instant in the jar and the kettle’s over there,” Monty gestured vaguely to the kitchen area.

Sam on the other hand looked like he wanted to weep at the prospect. Bucky took pity on him and sent him to Clint’s for access to his. This would be an action he would come to regret, when they would spent the oncoming weeks trying to outdo each other with inexplicable bird puns. 

 

* * *

 

Christmas was a strange affair that year, with so many people coming in for Dugan’s wedding and the addition of both Steve, Sam and Peggy to the production. Introductions were being made, everyone was sleeping on each others couches and it reminded Steve of the kind of old fashioned Christmas he'd have with his mother and her only family when Steve had been very young. Even Steve’s broken nose made a good opening story for people to find out about him and Bucky, now there was definitely a Him and Bucky even if they still hadn't really made it to any solid dates yet or moved past touching each others skin and kissing. Bucky wasn't ready for anything else and Steve could respect that. Speaking of him, Bucky’s best friend was a woman who looked and acted like she could be made of ice, but took dorky pictures of her cats and managed to colour Bucky’s hair with chalks without him noticing.  Gabe joined them later in the day, spending most of it chatting with Peggy and Monty about what Steve assumed was the assassination attempt. All he caught were the words ‘vita-rays’ and talk about relocating someone. He was too pre-occupied to be nosy. The fact that Gabe and Peggy seemed to be seeing each other a lot didn't escape him though.

After dinner, Bucky took him to one side and placed something metal in his fingertips before he could say anything. Steve looked down to see the tags he usually saw underneath Bucky’s shirt and looked up at him, questioning.

“If you’re going home in January,” Bucky said, his jaw tightening and loosening alternately. “I want you to bring some of me with you. Even if I can't be the real thing till I know what's going on with the shitshow here.”

Looking around at friends old and new, half asleep with paper crowns on their head while the television played the news, Steve started to wish he wasn’t going. For the first time in a long while, he felt like home was slipping through his fingertips and there was nothing he could do to stop it. 

 

* * *

 

 

The feeling had built up to a crescendo of dread by the time of Dugans wedding. He had his own invite, of course, but Bucky kept referring to him as his plus one and the possessive feeling it inspired in him ebbed the crawling fear a little. The ceremony was raucous, with the remaining commandos leading the charge in consuming enough alcohol to poison half the city. Adding a medic and a mad bomber to this group was bound to end in disaster and he really didn’t like to think what they were rigging up in the basement. Despite smiling his way through it all, Steve had never felt less like celebrating. 

“I got a call from Stark Industries this morning,” Bucky announced, flopping himself down beside Steve. He looked a little tipsy, but not too bad. “Seems the attempt on Stark’s life made Ross rethink the offer.”

Steve wasn’t sure how to react to that. Doing research into better ways of providing artificial limbs was important to Bucky and hearing about the programme being pulled wasn’t something he could be all that happy about. Even if it might mean that there was a chance that he might see Bucky again soon. His leaving dare was ticking down in his head and he wanted it to stop.

“They’re going to set up a new field trial with Stark overseeing the tech,” Bucky said, keeping his eyes on Gabe and Peggy doing some impressive dancing on the bar floor.  “I’ve been asked to stay on and I said yes.”

Steve gave him what he hoped was a convincing smile, “That’s great, Buck.”

“In Manhattan.” Steve’s heart stopped and he turned back to look at Bucky, who was obviously suppressing a smile as he continued talking.“Don’t suppose you know of anywhere I could crash near there till I find my own pla--umph!”

Steve put his hand around Bucky's neck and pulled him into a kiss, the kind that pulled air out of his lungs and pressed his face against his uncomfortably but he didn’t care. His lips felt cold, chapped and his breath was warm. He tasted like wine and something else he couldn't put his finger on. 

Behind them, Bucky’s unit let up a truly deafening whoop and there were a few comments telling them to find themselves a room.

  
“Fucking,” Bucky said, breaking off before pressing his lips in again for more. “Howling commandos.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was hard to say which felt more like coming home: walking the streets of Brooklyn or walking into Steve's apartment. 

 

 


End file.
